Monday, May 13, 2024
Մատթէոս Զարիֆեան։ ԴԵՌ ՉՀԱՍԱԾ...
Դեռ չըհասած այն մութ հեռուն,
Արցունք տեսայ իր աչքերուն...
Մըտերմօրէն
Ըսի իրեն՝
Թէ պէտք չէ՛ լայ -
Սիրե՜լ կ՚երթայ...
Եւ ուզեցի ժպտի՜լ, խնդա՜լ՝
Բայց իրե՛ն պես լացի ե՛ս ալ... ։
Friday, April 26, 2024
Jen Siraganian: How To Teach Atom Egoyan’s Ararat To Twelfth Graders
Pause the film. Ask them to Google the Armenian Genocide.
Lazy but keeps my voice from quaking.
A girl in a hoodie looks up from her computer,
why weren’t we taught this in school?
Toss (underhand) key words. Denial. Forgetting. Jailed journalists.
One student asks to be excused,
half-hides his phone in his sleeve. Is he Turkish
or just rejected from Stanford?
Don’t tell them I’m Armenian.
A colleague told me she recommended a book
about the genocide to her student. She was called
into the headmaster’s office the next day.
Turn the movie back on.
The boy and his phone haven’t returned.
Maybe he’s texting his mom. Maybe I’ll be fired.
A moth lands on the screen. I swat it away.
Don’t nudge the girl in the hoodie when she falls asleep.
The boy slips back in the room as a mother
is raped on a horse cart. The camera tilts down.
She is holding her daughter’s hand.
Mention nothing about this morning, wrapping a towel around my hair, asking the shower-steamed mirror if Turks would take me.
After the credits, a girl comments,
Schindler’s List made me feel more. Another
complains, the Turks were too villainized.
As they leave class, don’t speak of my grandmother who was raped, or what happened to her mother. Smile, the secrets lodged like seeds in teeth.
_____________
Jen Siraganian, Los Gatos Poet Laureate, has been featured in San Francisco Chronicle, the Mercury News, and NPR’s KALW. Her chapbook Fracture was released in 2014, and her writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Southwest Review, Cream City Review, Mid-American Review, and other journals and anthologies.
Reprinted from MIZNA
Tuesday, April 16, 2024
Ատրինէ Տատրեան: ՎԻԷԹՆԱՄՑԻՆ
Աչքեր մթին
կեանքի եզրին
ծուռ բերաններ
խորշոմ ճակտին
յօնքեր դարձած
ու քէն ըրած
իրենց սրտին
պայքար անզէն
անհաւասար
կռիւ
ցրիւ:
Ունի սակայն,
սիրտը յուզող
հերոսութիւն
ու լեռներու
մացառներու
ապառաժին
վիէթնամցին...
Մահը իրն է
մահը խրոխտ
մահը խորհուրդ
հայրենիքին
փրկութիւն
վիէթնամցին,
Հպարտ է ան
վիէթնամցին
Հերոսացած,
Արեւներէն ուժը առած
վիէթնամցին...
սիրտն է ազնիւ
բազուկն է յաղթ
հողով յուռթի
կրնայ կռուիլ
Վարդանի պէս
Վիէթնամցին
Վահանի պէս
հալածողին
ինկած սուրին
չըլլար գերին
վիէթնամցին:
Թող ամչնան
անոնք որոնք՝
փոքր են սրտով
եւ կը չափուին
փոքր ազգի մը
մեծ այդ սրտով:
Լայն ճակատով
սեւ քու մորթով
փայլուն աչքով
վիէթնամցի՛...
լաւ կը ճանչնամ
քու կռուողի
քու հերոսի
սի՛րտդ
վիէթնամցի...
լաւ կը ճանչնամ
տոհմդ հերոս
իմ տոհմիս պէս
որ միշտ գիտէ
մեռնի՛լ...
հերոսօրէն
նոյնքան սակայն,
ապրիլ...
ապրիլ:
Լոյս տեսած է «Պայքար» (Պոլիս), 11 Յուլիս 1968
Wednesday, February 21, 2024
UNTITLED by JOSEPH POLADIAN
I
Am Cupid’s daughter.
Mistake and design begot me.
Under the silver sun,
I brush away my identity.
A few blots here, a few strokes there,
And all the men gather round me.
The people above,
Impeached,
Glare down at me,
Yet, still I dance
And cherish this ineffable circumstance.
I spend the nights
Swinging between restless arms,
Swathed in sordid kisses
And garnished with love bites.
Beyond this place
Of discord and hate,
I move my hips
And feel the night
Gently stroke my face
With the long, dark blades of its fingers.
I go home,
Smelling like a thousand men.
My flamboyance
Lures natural nonconformists
Out of their comfort.
I shake their grounds
With every coaxing sway,
Until I mitigate their pangs
Of unjustified guilt.
Passersby under the sun
Think I’m a harlequin.
But all I am
Is a goddess,
Devoid of coarse remorse.
My very being is nothing
But benign poison.
When the harrowing hour of the dawn strikes,
Ghost-quiet as every truth awakes,
Then,
And only then,
Does my freedom disintegrate
Back into the infinite sunset.
Only then,
Do I see
What they see
Only then,
Just then,
Do I remember,
I am somebody’s son.
This poem was previously published in Rusted Radishes, the Beirut Literary and Art Journal, founded in 2012.
Joseph Poladian
Joseph Poladian is a 20-year-old student of English literature at the Lebanese University. He has been passionate about the written word ever since he knew what different combinations of the alphabet can do. Being an avid reader, he started writing his own poems and short stories, experimenting with words, genres, and structure.
Sunday, February 11, 2024
Arpine Konyalian Grenier RIP
Suchness, What Noise
Daftar blue dualities intervene to convene
lines and shapes of context and word
levitation surmises
remember architecture?
the tool-master’s need stands in the way
congruence and correlation fester
main tenant
full scale social/political lungs oh yes
transience
how different that is from all things durable
to come together to just become so
this and that
experience
conditioned and mediated ausgang haben
how is ownership generated then?
(some rocks at Death Valley are walking they say)
gauge symmetries are unobservable
what I say to my love is the song
chew it slightly for taste
I wanted a last word with you
no schnell no halt
no gyavoor
the rub is otherly
déjà rêvė déjà parlė
déjà lu
vėcue
what social basis do I come from?
Published in Word For/Word
I and U at IU and the Dogwoods
Ajune in Armenian is what remains after passing
Ajine in Arabic is yeast which makes bread
living continues Ajine to Ajune
to Ajine and so on
said Arpine, and passed
Arpine Konyalian Grenier, a frequent contributor to APP, died on January 9, 2024.